Success

“My horse lost the race and he is out of sorts,” a stable-boy says, grooming the tousled mane. “I keep consoling him, so he does not get discouraged.” He kisses the horse on his muzzle. “Today you are a loser, understand?” he says, “but only for today.”

Nearby a horse kicks about and neighs in desperation. He jumped obstacles and fences flawlessly, yet he angrily gnaws at the wooden logs of the enclosure.

“That horse won the race and he is out of sorts,” says the stable-boy, of the loser horse. “His owners went for cocktails to celebrate their victory.” The horse hustles about and rears. Swollen veins mark his neck.

“The creature got some applause and now he stands in solitude.”

The cats that calm the horses have waned into startled eyes in dark corners of the stable.

Riches

“How poorly they live, our grandma and grandpa,” someone visiting my grandparents said in an undertone . It was a sentence I heard in my childhood and it stang me to the core. I remember glancing askance at the owner of those words.

Poorly? Entire days I would sit on the porch leading to the house, under the spell of the wealth.

Along the soil-covered cellar, sunflowers grew. Their radiant sunny heads served as a paradise for bees which migrated acrobatically from flower to flower. At the end of the row of sunflowers, rhubarb grew, which had apparently sowed itself there. I stared at its thick crimson stalks and large dark-green leaves and pondered the so self-sown a display . The cellar hid infinity: jars of marinated mushrooms and pickled cucumbers; potatoes; cabbages; cauliflowers; apples in many hues; preserves of forest berries. My grandparents showered their guests with gifts of the soil.

Behind the wooden fence, on the neighbors' pasture, handsome horses grazed. They would approach each other and cuddle up; at times one would gustily gallop away, but not for long.

The path through the garden of blooms and butterflies led to a brook. Its banks were strewn with forget-me-nots. By crossing a wobbly plank over the brook I would step onto a meadow of undulating hills. It smelled of wild grasses. I sat under a sprawling shrub and ate its red berries. Though not entirely sure they were edible, as nobody had taken a liking to them, I did not deign to ask an adult.

During the excursions to the meadow, following my grandparents' instructions not to be idle, I kept my eye on the hen and her chicks, so they would not run onto train tracks.

“We are not short on anything,” I heard my grandma and grandpa say time and again.

The Ocean of Chopin
(to Arcadi Nebolsine)

His five o'clock Martini stands atop his white piano. Wearing a seasoned midnight-blue woolen hat on his grey hair, he rocks gently in front of the white and black keys. Outside the window, the autumn of Sagaponack is closing a crispy cold day of troubled sky and intermittent sunrays. The churning ocean nearby crashes and hisses. One slow sip of Martini. He fishes out the olive from the glass and savors it with delight, as if transported to a sunny grove where olive trees grow. With a droplet of Martini he cleans his glasses carefully and returns them onto his nose. Pensive awaiting glows on the faces of the gathered by the fireplace. One more sip of Martini and he plays Chopin into the night, with closed eyes.

* “Riches” and “Success” appeared in In Prose (Un-Gyve Books, 2014).